


Here

by etacanis



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etacanis/pseuds/etacanis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And really, that's all he wants. To be okay. | A series of eight connected drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrecookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrecookies/gifts).



> For Nadia, because it was her prompts that started it all and because she has to put up with me randomly tweeting at her about anything even vaguely connected to GK. Also, it's probably her fault I even write GK fic.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Based on the fictionalized characters as played by Alexander Skarsgard and Stark Sands in the HBO miniseries, not the real people.

01:  
When Nate opens his front door to find one Sergeant Brad 'Iceman' Colbert on his doorstep, he thinks, for a brief moment, that he's having another one of _those_ dreams.

"LT," Brad says, in that surefire cocky way of his, the one that warps the words into something that _isn't_ respect, not that he deserves it anymore, not that he's even a lieutenant anymore. "I was in the neighborhood."

"Bullshit." He lets him in, and doesn't watch as Brad toes his sneakers off. He thinks about making coffee, because that's what you're supposed to do, but he doesn't know how Brad takes it. "So, why are you here?" The words sound harsh, unwelcome, and he wonders if he should have phrased it as 'what's up', instead. _Dog_ , his mind supplies.

Brad doesn't say anything. He hovers awkwardly between the door and the couch and he shrugs.

Nate already knows that that's the only answer he's going to get.

02:  
They fight and they fuck and somewhere in between, Brad goes away and comes back tasting like salt and sand and sea. They give each other bruises, bruises on skin and bruises on something else, something different, something neither of them know how to name. They say things they don't mean and things they _do_ mean. Sometimes, they wake up gasping for breath with hearts beating too fast and they mumble their way around nightmares and flailing limbs and almost broken noses. They argue, and it turns into sparring, and a broken coffee table and laughter and apologies that need to be said. They _are_ and they aren't, and neither of them admit that it feels like a suckerpunch every time the door closes on a goodbye.

03:  
It's always the wives left behind, left to keep the house and raise the kids and wait for the men to get back from war or training or wherever the fuck they're sent to. There's no house in this case, or kids, just Nate, a shitty apartment and a spider plant, waiting for Brad and dealing with the realization that it's not easier if you've been on the other side.

04:  
Brad doesn't like the word boyfriend, _hates_ the word boyfriend, especially in relation to Nate. It brings to mind an image of something that is not them. Appletinis and a lisp, he says, one time, sacked out on the couch with Nate across him, and gets a kick in the thigh for his troubles.

Partner is even worse. Partner is lace curtains. Partner is apple pie. Partner is an _alternative relationship_ and no tan line on a ring finger. Partner makes Brad want to gag.

Significant other is the worst. Significant other makes Brad want to puke. Brad doesn't know what significant other is, other than especially retarded.

He doesn't know what Nate calls him out of his hearing. To his face, he's Brad, always, because pet names get greeted with a level stare and a distinct _no_. It's probably something liberal dick-sucky. It's probably fucking significant other. He doesn't _want_ to know.

05:  
Officially, it starts in Nate's living room, on Nate's couch, with the news playing on the background. Officially, it starts with a nervous kiss, slow and languid and not quite perfect. It starts with Brad's hands still against his own thighs, and Nate's on Brad's shoulders. It starts with a hushed 'is this okay?', a hushed 'yes'.

Technically, it starts in Iraq, behind a berm, with artillery pounding out a rhythm in the background. Technically, it starts with a meter of distance between them, frosty and cold and full of tension. It starts with Brad saying absolutely nothing, and Nate saying something that neither of them can remember. It starts with a glance, a soft rebuttal.

06:  
He traces the edges of Brad's tattoo at night, fingers chasing the outlines while Brad sleeps. He traces faces and mountains and runs his thumb along the edge of the dimples at the base of Brad's back. Occasionally, he wanders, tucks his fingers under the contrast of Brad's ribs and back again, back to the mountains and then men and the stories he tells inside his head.

07:  
It's unsurprising that it's cold on Christmas, slightly surprising that it's snowing, and all Nate can think about is Brad, probably still in flip flops and a t-shirt.

He doesn't think that this should have been _their_ Christmas, one together, wrapped up warm or in clothes that they wore through summer, because it feels petulant and childish. He doesn't think _it's his fault_ , because that feels even more childish, more like he can't accept that he fucked up too.

(He thinks it though, sometimes, in the dark, in a freezing cold bed that should be less spacious).

He does text Brad, a simple, almost _professional_ 'merry christmas', even though he knows Brad isn't celebrating, even though he knows Brad is probably fucking around with his computer and complaining to himself about candy canes and commercialism. He does smile when he gets a reply that reads 'happy hanukkah', because it feels like they might be okay, at some point in the future.

(And really, that's all he wants. To be _okay_.)

08:  
It's always been the idea of drowning that gets to him, the tightness in his chest, the panic when he realizes he can't breathe.

He wakes up on a perfectly average Sunday and realizes that's how Brad makes him feel, like he's drowning, like he's lost his control. He wakes up, and he realizes he doesn't care, that the panic isn't there anymore.


End file.
